Strangers
by green frogs
Summary: A dance at the Crown Inn in Emma between Jane Fairfax and Frank Churchill. For one dance, they don't have to pretend to be strangers. They can flirt and talk like all couples do. But for only one dance.


I made sure she wasn't my first choice, or my second, or my third. It looked, to anyone who was looking, that I was simply out of partners. I made sure Miss Woodhouse had first accepted the hand of some other gentleman and many of the other desirable ladies had already been asked. I looked around, pretending to be trying to find a partner, though I already knew whom I had wanted to dance with this whole entire night. I knew where she was. I always knew where she was.

Minutes before the dance was about to start, I casually walked up to her, placing a mask of doubt on my face.

She smiles at me. The lips of an angel, I'm quite sure. So perfectly red and full and innocent and just waiting to be kissed. She's in such a lovely dress. True, it was muslin and not very good muslin at that, probably nothing compared to Miss Woodhouse's silk dress or that of the other lady's of the room. Still, she's perfect in it. She's perfect in anything. She could wear a cotton sheet and look like a goddess. Her gray eyes lit up at the sight of me, but she betrayed no emotion on that perfect, porcelain, alabaster face of hers. Oh that creamy snow-like skin. How I wanted to simply run my hands all over it, from head to toe.

But I put those thoughts out of my head. That had to wait.

I offered my hand to her. She hesitated for a second, but she placed her hand in mine. Even through the fabric of her gloves, I could feel the electricity, the heat radiating to me. But I pretend not to notice. I pretend that this isn't the woman I'm madly in love with. I pretend this isn't the person who's in every one of my dreams. I pretend that I don't stay up half the night thinking of her and that beautiful skin of hers.

We reach the dance floor. I bow, she curtseys. We pretend like we haven't done this a million times at Weymouth. We pretend that we hadn't snuck out into the gardens and danced to the music that flowed from the ballrooms, just so we wouldn't be caught.

I smile at her.

"Lovely ball we're having, isn't it?" I ask, making polite conversation in case the couples next to us are listening.

She nods her head.

We make small talk. It's brutal. There's so much more we want to say, so much more we need to say. I remember the days at Weymouth, where we would spend hours walking along the beaches and talking of everything: music, books, family, and love. Now, we can't say more than a couple of sentences about the weather. Yet, I don't mind. I don't feel sorry for myself, because she's here. I can see her. I can feel her hand brush against mine as we spin, simply the briefest of touches. I know that the only person she looks at with those glistening gray eyes is I. That's enough. I can die happy, just knowing that.

"How did you like the piano?" I whisper as we slide past each other.

She smiles her little angelic smile.

"Yes, I quite enjoyed it," she says.

"Miss Woodhouse and I presume it's from a certain admirer," I whisper again. I can see the hair on her neck rise up every time I do it. Perhaps that's part of the reason.

"Did you really have to do that?" she whispers back, her lips agonizingly close. I could feel her breathe and I fought back a small gasp. Now I can feel the goose bumps rise on the back of mine. Despite her angelic appearance, she's sometimes quite the little devil. I smile back at her.

"Of course. How else could we explain-" I paused as Miss Woodhouse danced past us, casting me a sly smile. I suppose afterwards, I would have to make up something about my questioning Jane about Ireland.

Jane dances beautifully, as always. She's so light on her feet that it seems as though she was floating. She's so elegant, so perfect in every possible way. A man would truly be a blockhead if he wanted more than her. And yet, look at me.

"Could you at least not tease me so? The Irish music?" she whispers again. The hair on my neck rises again.

"If you keep on doing that, I might never be able to dance with you again," I tease.

She smiles and my heart flutters along with that smile.

I hope to God I do not lose her. Every time I go to Enscombe, I feel as though she's going to be gone by the time I get back. Sometimes, I think the rest of the world is a little stupid. How do they not see her? How is it that not every other man on this planet is banging at her door? She is perfection itself.

I'm stupid along with the rest of them, I suppose. Instead of marrying her the moment she told me she loved me, I wait like a fool. I am half frightened by the prospect that she will run off with someone smarter, someone who sees her for exactly what she is and will never let go. What will all of Enscombe and all the luxury of the world be worth without her there?

Suddenly the music falters and I know we are coming to an end. It could be weeks, perhaps months before I could ever touch her again. A man can only borrow scissors so many times before people start to suspect something is happening.

I savor the feel of her hand in mine. I tell myself that it won't be long before I can hold her for real and bring her home. It won't be long before I can dance every dance with her, instead of watching her dance with others.

A bow. A curtsey.

And we are strangers again.


End file.
